


Typographical Errors, Sherlock Holmes Style

by Kate_Lear



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-15
Updated: 2011-04-15
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:48:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Lear/pseuds/Kate_Lear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is good at multitasking. Sherlock, not so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Typographical Errors, Sherlock Holmes Style

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Multitasking, John Watson Style](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/2915) by alizarin_nyc. 



> Written for alizarin_nyc in the [Sherlock_remix](http://community.livejournal.com/sherlock_remix/) challenge, this is a remix of her fantastically sexy story [_Multitasking, John Watson Style_](http://alizarin-nyc.livejournal.com/243796.html). Many thanks to innie_darling for beta-ing!
> 
>  **ETA:** gingernotginny has translated this into Chinese, available [here](http://www.mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=22395&extra=page%3D1)

Sherlock is puzzling over the finer points of a potential new case – it looks promising, but the client has left out several key details – when John enters his bedroom. He knows why John’s quietly standing by the bed. For the whole evening, John has been silent and fidgety; it’s clear that he wants sex, but it’s equally clear that he’s not quite sure that an overture wouldn’t be summarily dismissed, which Sherlock finds very endearing.

And so when John approaches him, clearly on the cusp of suggesting he set aside his laptop for a while, Sherlock obligingly wriggles out of his dressing gown and rolls over onto his stomach, since John has somehow become a person who Sherlock wants very much to please, even when work is demanding his attention.

But this case is sufficiently intriguing that he doesn’t want to stop looking at it even for a moment, and so he places his laptop at the head of the bed in order to continue working and stuffs a pillow under his hips.

‘Go ahead, it’s fine,’ he encourages John, who looks startled. ‘Really, I don’t mind, it won’t bother me.’

It won’t. He’s trained himself to ignore pain signals of hunger and exhaustion from his body, and so he’s certain that he can ignore pleasure signals.

But John is evidently aghast. ‘Sherlock, that's insane. I can't even tell you how unappealing the whole idea is. I'm kind of offended, actually. I'm going to my room.’

‘Wait, John. Why are you being so difficult? You need to have sex, I need to work. This argument is distracting enough already, and if you go off and have a sulk then I’ll never get anything done. Just come on. Here you go, lube and a condom.’

Trying to be helpful, Sherlock fishes the necessary items out of the bedside table and resumes typing. _Advise whether bed is fixed to the floor. Also advise at what date the modifications to which you refer were–_

‘Sherlock. It’s just not on,’ John sighs irritably. His feathers have been ruffled, but Sherlock can see that he’s also half-hard in his pyjamas. Excellent. He doesn’t want John to sulk – it’s surprisingly distracting, since when he does Sherlock finds himself hard-pressed to focus on anything other than how to coax John back to his usual placid self – but clearly further encouragement is required.

Sherlock turns back to his laptop, but spreads his thighs wide and tilts his hips upwards fractionally, posing for John. When he hears a soft groan and the rustle of clothing being removed he bites his lip – suspecting that a triumphant grin in such a situation would irritate John intensely – and then John switches the bedroom light off just before the mattress dips under his weight.

‘Oh good, you're opting not to sulk. Much appreciated,’ Sherlock says, starting to type again: _completed. Furthermore, specify the species and number of ‘unusual pets’ that you say your uncle–_

‘As long as I don't hear any complaints, Sherlock,’ John says, almost managing to hide the sound of his lingering uncertainty under a veneer of false bravado. ‘I’m going to fuck you, and if it means you can't type properly, that’s too damn bad.’

‘Of course,’ Sherlock soothes him. He supposes it would be a step too far for John’s frayed patience to ask him to avoid jolting him too much.

John’s hands are warm and firm when they slide up the backs of Sherlock’s thighs, and his stubble scratches the small of Sherlock’s back pleasantly. It’s almost enough to make him want to arch his spine and purr, until he remembers that he’s not supposed to be paying attention and focuses back on his laptop, ignoring the gentle sting of John sucking a mark into the skin of his hip.

 _If your case proves sufficiently unusual then I will come and investigate in person,_ he types. _Howeverrrrrrr–_

He stops abruptly when he feels John’s tongue, warm and wet against the cleft of his buttocks. Slowly, _achingly_ slowly, it slides down and back up, and Sherlock’s heart starts to pound. At first John seems content to mouth sloppy kisses aimlessly against his flesh, but when gently insistent thumbs part his buttocks and John’s mouth slides lower and lower until it’s right _there_ , Sherlock’s fingers curl helplessly as he sucks in a deep breath. They’ve never done that before, and it’s surprisingly good.

When he feels the soft, wet squirm of John’s tongue working its way _inside_ him, he can’t help rutting into the pillow, just once, and John’s name spills out of him as his fingers skitter over the keyboard.

 _nc;wfiwfhwu_ , reads the next line of his email.

John hums an interrogative noise, making Sherlock swallow hard against a whimper, and lifts his head to warn, ‘Remember: I said, no complaining.’

‘I'm not, er, complaining,’ Sherlock assures him, wondering if he sounds as breathless as he feels, and John says, ‘Good,’ as he lowers his head again, causing _bcuwlcyw mudwyK_ to appear on the screen a couple of seconds later.

There’s some movement behind Sherlock that makes him close his eyes in anticipation until warm, lube-slick fingers are touching him, pulling gently on his balls and briefly gripping his erection before sliding back up to his arse and pushing easily inside him.

Pleasure crackles along his nerves and he gasps for breath as John fingers him lazily, and when it becomes clear that John could happily do this indefinitely, Sherlock slams the laptop closed with shaking hands and cants his hips further upwards.

‘Please, John, please,’ he begs, not caring how desperate he sounds, and then he hears the crinkle of a condom packet before John is there, pushing into him in one slow, heart-stoppingly good thrust. John’s mouth is on his shoulder, the nape of his neck, the side of his jaw, and Sherlock twists his head for a proper kiss as John starts to rock his hips.

He can tell that John wants to draw it out – his thrusts are slow and unhurried, and each one drags the head of his cock firmly over Sherlock’s prostate, forcing an obscene noise from him. But Sherlock is already desperate – he’s had John’s tongue, fingers, and cock inside him – and he bites his lip but can’t stop his pleas spilling out, pleas for _more_ and _harder_ and _oh God, John, yes, that’s it, I’m nearly there_.

When John takes pity on him and slides a hand underneath his hips to take hold of his cock, he cries out. John’s fingers are still slippery with leftover lubricant and one tug at Sherlock’s erection is all it takes for the exquisite ache in his groin to throb and expand and he’s coming, random bits of nonsense falling from his lips. Behind him, he’s vaguely aware of John snapping his hips forwards – forcing a last few shuddery pulses from Sherlock – and groaning through his own orgasm.

He slumps to the mattress, his concentration utterly ruined, and pants for breath while John hums quietly and cleans himself up. When John prods at his thigh and asks, ‘Back to work, then?’ Sherlock flops over onto his back, half-propping himself up against the pillow at the head of the bed, and tries to summon a decent glare.

John looks disgustingly smug, and Sherlock huffs, ‘I suppose you think you’re very clever.’

John can’t hide his grin. ‘I’m a bloody genius.’

Speaking of genius, Sherlock hopes he didn't hit send on that email. He has a reputation to maintain.

\--End--


End file.
